Fangs That Bite
by Andi6739
Summary: She has fangs that bite. She's the Wolf and your Red Riding Hood. She Snow White and your the Apple. She's Whitney Black. Sweets/OC


You barely have time to take a breath before she's on you. Her teeth nip at your neck, sharp little pinches that strum the strings of your vocal cords. She makes you moan, and you're not sure if it's from pleasure or pain.

When you think of Whitney, you think of many things. Her full, dark purple lips. That arch in her brow that warns you, that whip crack that tells you she's trouble. Her eyes, so clear, so cold. As changing as the weather. They are an dark blue. So dark, that you could drown in them. Her skin, so flawless. Porcelain that's warm to the touch, white chocolate that melts under your fingertips. Oh yes, Whitney conjures a lot of thoughts for you.

The first thought of her is always teeth, though. Sharp, white teeth, slipped behind such sweet lips, sheathed like a cat does its claws. The first time you kissed her was the first time you felt them, pricking your lower lip. It made your blood surge like it was just aching to spill for her, to rush to where her teeth pressed in the hopes of welling out. The first time you slept with her, she never broke the skin.

The second time was different. She broke you all over.

You whimper as her teeth nip harder, soft skin of your throat throbbing. You'd call her a vampire, but she doesn't thirst for your blood. If she was a vampire, she'd be satisfied with just one bite. You're not sure what to call her. A wolf with a bone, perhaps. And one day she'll tire of her nibbling and bite to crack you in two, and maybe then it'll be too much. But it's not now.

Part of you relishes the pangs of pain. It's the part that makes your nails flex between her shoulderblades, the part that strokes the broken skin after she's gone, the pinpricks where your blood escaped, the dark welts where it didn't. It's a part that lives in your fingers, in your breath. It makes you take her face, guide her to the most wanting piece of your body, the most tender place. It makes your breath a silken thing, escaping your lungs in long ribbons. You're her chewtoy, but you're a willing one.

You feel Whitney's teeth sink into your skin, a hot burst of adrenaline flooding you. And if it's her teeth that hurt, it's her tongue that heals, smoothing over the weal she's raised. When she kisses you, she tastes like pennies. She might not be a vampire, but your blood is still on her lips. It's on yours soon enough. It doesn't take much pressure from Whitney's incisors to slice through your lower lip, the heavy taste flooding your mouth. Your lips heal quickly, but never quickly enough. Whitney always opens them up again. You wonder sometimes if her teeth are sharper than yours. Maybe she's just not as afraid to use them. Maybe you're just a piece of fruit to tear a chunk out of, your skin no different than the skin of an apple, taut and sweet. But if you're an apple, that'd make Whitney Snow White, and you'd be the death of her.

You tell her not to bite too deep. Your pulp could be a poison.

It's not always like this. At first, yes, when she's hungry, when her fingers curl into claws and her body feels like bone, hard and stiff against you. But afterwards, oh, afterwards. It's soft and sweet. If you're the meat to her, she's dessert to you, and you treat her with soft licks and kisses until she's just a sweet taste on your tongue. She melts under your touch, and you lick off her your fingers at the end. Maybe you're more of a vampire than she is.

You're longing for that part, when it's your turn to devour her. You take your time. But that time isn't now. It's Whitney who's snipping you apart, and she's not nearly done. You move from the hard wall of her room to her bed, and there isn't a lot of difference in the softness. The mattress is hard and springy. Whitney's the only soft thing in her bed, and she's claws and fangs right now. Her breath is hot on your wounded neck, followed by her lips, and it's a kiss this time, gentle over the broken skin. A sorry for the pain you love her to cause. She tears your clothes off impatiently, and you pluck the hard round disc left nestled between her breasts with a silenced sigh. Another button you'll have to sew back on. Whitney takes the button from between your fingers and tosses it over her shoulder. "Later, Dr. Sweets." She growls, attacking your lips once again.

You don't worry over it for long, Whitney's fingers skimming your stomach, pawing at your boxers. She'd tear those off if she could. You grin as you stroke her cheek, a pang of pain in the smile. Maybe if she used her teeth. You're sure she could slice through them in a second. It's something you'll have to try next time, but for now, she's left more than enough of her mark on you, in ripped clothes and torn skin.

Your fingers trace a path from her cheek down over her throat, coming to rest on her sharp collarbone. "You've got to undress too." You tease, pushing her back slightly. You can't complain with Whitney. You know you can't, because it doesn't work. Complaints only serve to annoy her, to make her pout and huddle into herself until you soothe her. Sometimes, she's just as much of a child as you are. Only her petty tantrums are only thrown over more adult matters.

Whitney sits back, still straddling you, and her top is off before you've even propped yourself up. She doesn't take the time to savour you, but it's her loss, really. It all balances out. She's hard and fast, and you're soft and slow. You both reach the same end, and you figure that's the most important thing. You reach behind you, pushing away the blankets behind you. It tends to frustrate Whitney. She moves it easily enough on herself, but something about you makes her fingers shake, turns them into clumsy paws. Maybe that's why she rips at you. You make her too inept to do anything else.

She makes a soft sound in her throat as you tug her loose bra away. She's in nothing but a pair of ripped jeans now, button still fastened. You manage at least to pop it open before she lowers herself to your chest, her larger breasts sweeping achingly soft on your stomach. Her lips find a nipple, and she hardens it quickly with a few sweeps of her tongue, the sensation warm and electric in the pit of your stomach. She unsheathes her teeth after a moment, and it makes your hips jump underneath her, a pulse pounding between your legs. A moan catches in your teeth, filtered through the gaps, and the remnants of it are sucked back in as Whitney's teeth sink in deeper. There's a thread of pleasure twisted up in the pain, and it only serves to make it more exquisite, to make your back arch even higher off the bed. Your hands grip her shoulders, tight, knuckle white, and you're not sure if it's to push her away or draw her in closer. Your body tells you conflicting things. To save yourself from this attack, to run, lest you be pinned down and torn apart. But if this is what being torn apart feels like, you'll pull yourself to pieces for her.

Her tongue traces a path back up, lips plucking at your collarbone. She doesn't touch her teeth there; she's too busy. Her fingers hook in your boxers, dragging them down, and you hear the snick of a zip as she undoes her fly. She keeps the jeans on, however. She's just making it easier for you afterwards. And now you're bare beneath her, raw and ready. Her thigh is slipped between yours, parting your legs, the denim scratching the sensitive skin. She's left bite marks there too, littered along the path of your femoral artery. She likes the pulse of it, the surge. She likes to feel it gush inside you, panicked by her nips, though they could never sink deep enough to dip into it.

She starts to ride you now. Her fingers gripping into your thighs. She keeps her nails short. They're long enough only to prick you, to pick at your bones. They're not nearly so sharp as her teeth. Her fingers force themselves inside you, but her previous attentions make it an easy task. Her bite doesn't send just adrenaline gushing from you.

Her lips press into your hair, hot pants feathering the soft raven locks. She strokes your hair sometimes, after both of you have cooled and set. Her fingers trace it with such curiosity, as if she can't connect the colour without a pulse. As if she's confused by its vanilla taste, instead of the bitterness of copper.

Her fingers dig into you, your stroking her tight walls and sending such a pleasant shiver through her. Your breath stumbles in your lungs, sputtering out like puffs of smoke, in broken dribs and drabs. She uses her teeth to pin you, to keep you here, and real, and hers, while she strokes the strings of your insides, plucking out a pleasant melody. You can't wait for the chorus. It's the part you sing best.

You manage to stutter out in a broken voice. "F-faster-"

Whitney readily obliges, her teeth sinking deeper at the juncture where your neck joins your shoulder until it feels like she's holding the bundle of nerves that cluster there in her jaws, just waiting to tear you numb. It makes the pain rise just as high as the pleasure, the two waves converging, lapping higher and higher with every thrust into Whitney, every twitch of her lips. She drives you wild. She makes you into just as much of a beast as she is, and you'd claw and gnash at her if you could, if you weren't so busy trying to hold yourself together. Or maybe you're just helping her to tear you apart.

Regardless of what it is you're trying to do, you fail in a frozen instant. Every nerve in your body, every spiderweb of sensation that crawls under your skin is set alight, and you wonder if she can feel the flame against her lips, where she holds that bundle hostage. You stiffen, hips jerking up into her hand, riding it in a pathetic plea for more, more.

When your body finally relaxes, you're shaking. You're covered in a sheen of sweat, muscles shivering, and Whitney's all soft kisses, and gentle dabs with her tongue. She's had her fill of you, drank you down and chewed you up. Her gentleness is an apology, an appraisal of the damage she's done. To see how much more she can do. You don't bother telling her an apology isn't needed, you're sure she already knows, and she'd deny this softness as ever being one. She's devoured you, and now it's your turn, and you make no apologies for anything you do, whether they're needed or not. If Whitney is teeth, you're tongue, and you don't need to saw through her tough sinews, gnaw at the gristle on her bones. You need only lap at her, and she's honey on your lips, sweet and buzzing.

She yields under your touches, under the gentle stroke of your fingers. The sharpness of her bones sinks beneath her skin, her teeth hide behind her full lips, the cold sea of her eyes behind her eyelids. You can make her blood surge just as much, blush her pale skin to pink, and you can do it without even a scratch.

You're Little Red Riding Hood, and Whitney's the Big Bad Wolf, but who ever said she couldn't be tamed? She's just a whining puppy under your hands now, begging for you. The only part that remains are her teeth.

Her teeth, sharp and white and tasting of your blood.

All the better to eat you with.


End file.
